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The late afternoon sun slants long and golden streaks across the University of Tokyo’s campus, catching on the faded red brick of the old library building, scattering over neat rows of ginkgo trees. The yellow leaves are beginning to flood the pathway, crunching under their feet.
“Don’t worry, bro, I swear I’m locked in today,” Gojo says, nudging Nanami’s arm with his elbow. Nanami doesn’t pause his purposeful stride to acknowledge his claim, ignoring the motion at his arm as he pushes through the library doors. Gojo trails closely behind him, backpack hanging carelessly over one shoulder, the light blue “UTokyo Basketball” print standing out against the black backpack.
The hush is nearly immediate as the pair enters the glass doors. Nanami shoots him a sharp look, a silent keep your voice down, which Gojo just waves off, hardly sparing him a glance. He’s more focused–eyes glazing over the clusters of students hunched over laptops–on you, sitting at the front desk.
He blinks, frozen for a second.
You’re sitting with your head bent over, chin resting on the heel of your hand while the other hand flips through cataloguing slips with unconscious rhythm, pen balanced between your fingers while you do so. A stack of books waits by your elbow, the glow of the afternoon sun peeks through the high windows, cutting over your shoulder and lighting up the edges of your hair. You’re too focused on the task at hand to notice him eyeing you.
Who is that?
And because Satoru’s thoughts never stay just as Satoru’s thoughts, he’s leaning toward Nanami, who’s still striding purposefully toward his usual table, nudging him with his elbow again, “Who is that?”
Nanami barely bats an eye as they make their way around a bookshelf. His eyes flick over to the desk and then back to the table they now find themselves at. He pulls out the wooden chair, takes a seat then leans his backpack against the legs.
“y/n,” he says simply, voice pitched low in consideration of the quiet library. Gojo pulls out the chair across from him with a screech that earns him another sharp look from Nanami and sets his backpack carelessly on the table top.
The table is secluded, tucked behind a tall shelf with encyclopedias and reference books. The shelves are angled to block the early autumn heat from the sun from hitting the seats directly.
He takes a seat, slouching back into the chair casually and huffs when he realizes the shelf is now blocking you from his view.
“Soo,” Gojo drawls, “you know her?” He’s peering at Nanami mischievously as Nanami begins to unpack his backpack with precision.
“Yes,” he states simply, pulling out his textbook. He places a pen and a highlighter next to it. Gojo already has his mouth open ready to speak, before he raises his hand, putting it out towards him half-heartedly to say wait. “We had a class together,” his eyes flick up from his carefully placed study materials to pin Gojo’s. “She’s smart, diligent, minds her own business. I don’t think you’re her type.”
Gojo grins back, seemingly unfazed. “I’m everybody’s type,” he responds confidently. He slides his own textbook onto the table, flipping it open to the most recent chapter.
Nanami stares at him blankly for a second before sighing and returning to the assignment at hand. A calm quiet falls over them, the only noise being the scratch of pen on paper for some time. Gojo does end up focusing on the assignment but it doesn’t last much longer than twenty maybe thirty minutes because then he’s dropping the pen down onto his notebook, the clattering sound enough to make Nanami glance up at him, a slight twitch in his brow.
“I’ll be back,” he grins, leaning back in his chair to stretch his arms out lazily. Nanami gives him an unimpressed look that only lasts a second before he returns to his textbook, knowing too well what Satoru was about to do.
He pushes out of the chair, making his way around the looming bookshelf to the front desk, casually. You’re still sitting there, back facing him and glancing back and forth between the same thick catalogue from earlier and the computer monitor. He rounds to the front of the desk. You don’t notice him, too engrossed in your work with that soft intensity in your eyes.
“Hey,” he leans onto the desk, resting his weight on his elbows so he’s closer to eye level with you.
Your head snaps over to him, a bit startled since you hadn’t noticed him coming. “Hi,” you give him a practiced professional smile, “Do you need help with something?”
“Would you be able to help me find,” he pauses for a second to think, “a book on quantum physics?” He watches as you glance down to place a slip of paper with scribbles on it into the catalogue as a placeholder and close it. “I thought it’d be over here somewhere, but so far all I’m finding is a really pretty girl.”
You blink at him like you’re processing what he said. He wonders if he overdid it until you huff a small laugh, smiling at him brightly.
“Yep,” you say, sliding off your seat and starting to come around from behind the desk. “It’s riiight over here.” He trails after you, more focused on watching your backside than the direction you lead him through the shelves. He doesn’t think he ever really paid much attention to clothes that girls wear but something about seeing your legs in a skirt—
You stop abruptly, spinning on your heel to face him. Distracted by the skirt (amongst other things), he almost rams straight into you but catches himself before he can. (And he credits it to his athletic reflexes.)
“Here you go!” you chirp, gesturing toward the shelf to your right, directly behind where he had been sitting for the past thirty or so minutes. Nanami shoots him a look from behind you, his fingers finding their way to rub his temples in annoyance. “Right next to your table too, very convenient.”
“Heh… thanks,” he brings his hand up to rub the back of his neck, glancing over at the rows of books, none of which he had even the slightest intention of opening. Your smile is polite but there’s something else to it. You’re teasing him. His normal flirty smile has fallen into something more crooked, a lopsided grin.
“You’re welcome,” you sing as you turn to float back to your desk.
He stands where you left him for a second, hands sliding into his pockets lazily, watching as you disappear behind the bookshelf. His plan didn’t exactly work out how he had expected but he could definitely work with this.
-
Gojo figures girls—especially cute ones that work at the university library—love a guy who’s well-read. So for the next week after meeting you, he dedicates his free time to reading–feminist literature to be specific. Geto has a lot to say about his new hobby. At first, Gojo’s mostly reading it to impress you but he finds he actually finds it kind of interesting and he’s something of a self-proclaimed feminist by the end of it.
At the end of the week, he finds himself drifting back into the library. With practice starting in the next hour or so, he technically had some time to kill and he thinks he’d rather flirt with you than go to his usual hangout spots.
The quietness in the library falls over him the second he steps into the building, the smell of old books and wood filling his nose. His eyes immediately travel in the direction of the front desk. And sure enough, there you are, sitting behind the desk, as involved in your work as you were the last time he saw you.
Your eyes flick up as you hear the door open and you seem almost surprised to see him for half a second but then your lips curl into a smile. His chest tugs. He raises a hand, giving a nonchalant wave as he steps inside, one that you return with a quick wave back.
This time, he makes sure to find a seat at a table within view of the front desk. He shuffles his books out of his backpack once he sits, spreading his notes out in front of him. His focus is split, his gaze wandering up toward where you sit, lost in scanning returned books.
Some time passes, the clock ticking closer to 5 PM, his notes are still scattered and this time, when his eyes glance back to the front desk, you’re no longer there. Instead, you’re tugging a little cart filled with books lined up to be placed back on the shelves. He glances back down at his notes and textbooks and closes the textbook, pushing out his chair. He swipes a smaller book from his bag and starts heading in your direction.
You’re starting along the aisles, meticulously shelving returned books and pushing the cart along. He catches up to you, halfway down the aisle, the corner of his lip curling.
“Hey,” he drawls, leaning against the bookshelf as you’re reading the label on the book to determine where it goes. You look up from the book, a little startled. He notices it’s not hard for him to catch you off guard.
Your smile appears quickly, soft, easy, edging with amusement. “Hi,” you speak softly, voice lilted with that same teasing tone you spoke in last time so he knows you remember his shameless flirting. You tuck a book neatly into place.
“So,” he starts, pushing himself off the shelf as you start moving down the aisle with the cart, wheels squeaking slightly, “I don’t think I got your name last time, I’m Satoru.”
“I’m y/n,” you introduce yourself as he trails after you, stacking and straightening the books onto their respective shelves.
“How long have you been doing the cute librarian thing?” That earns him another huff of a laugh. He’s walking on the other side of the cart as you wheel it along. You stop at the end of a shelf, turning to face him while picking up another book from the pile. He has the absent-minded thought that your eyes are unfairly gorgeous, even under the fluorescent lighting. They catch like glass catching sunlight, twinkling in a way that makes the room look a little less gray.
“You must not come here often,” you tease. You do a lot of that he notices. “I started last spring semester.” He’s so distracted by the conversation that he hardly notices the rapidly dwindling stack of books on the cart.
His eyes flick over to the clock mounted high on the wall, enjoying his conversation with you way too much to leave for practice. 5:25 PM. He’s a little disappointed in the lack of time he has left.
“In a rush to get somewhere?” he watches as you track his line of sight to the clock. He would think you’re offended if not for the sly smile playing at the corner of your lip.
He braces his hands on the cart, leaning over it to get into your space. “Only to go where you’re going,” his voice smooth and easy.
You huff out another laugh before you can stop yourself, shaking your head. The sound is light, quick, a little quiet but it catches him off guard with how much he wants to hear it again. “That usually work for you?” you ask once you’re done laughing.
“Actually…” he blinks, really thinking about it. He can’t remember a time when his little dumb comments didn’t work. “Yeah.” He grins again, crooked and unabashed.
You hum in response, coming around to the side of the cart and placing your hands on the handles to push. He takes the hint to remove his weight from it, following you deeper into the maze of shelving systems. He follows closely behind as you walk both of you into a narrow back storage room.
“I actually wanted to return this,” he says, waving the book in his hand. You turn, a curious look on your face. A copy of The Second Sex dangles in his hand. “Feminist literature,” he adds, deliberately emphasizing the words. He has a shit eating grin.
“Woow, impressive,” you tease, tone lilting with some sarcasm. You place the book cover side up on the cart, stacking the remaining books onto a storage shelf to be restored.
“Yeah, I know,” Gojo shrugs casually, “Six-three, by the way.”
You laugh—bright and unguarded—and the sound hits him in the chest. He thinks he can get drunk on the sound. “You know the return pile is up there right?” You push the cart further until you round a corner and you pull a set of keys from the lanyard hanging from your cardigan pocket.
“Oh, is it?” he plays coy, watching as you use the keys to unlock a door. The door swings open into a supply closet and you start pushing the cart in.
“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, grabbing a clear plastic bin with a small grunt. You hand it to him silently and he places it onto the cart. When he turns back to you, you’re looking at him, eyes tilted up. His mind is spinning.
He really is hoping he’s not getting the wrong idea from you. He also really hopes he has enough time before practice. And if he doesn’t, the laps will probably be worth it. His hands find your hips and he backs you up against the wall, his height casting a shadow over you as he dips his head, closing the space between you. You let out a startled noise, something between a gasp and a squeak, a sound that barely has time to escape before his lips are on yours.
He’s sure he made the right decision when your much smaller hands find their way to the hem of his sweater, gripping on for purchase, tugging him closer.
He’s a little surprised at your enthusiastic response but welcomes it regardless, sliding a hand from your hip down to grope at the plush of your ass. You gasp into the kiss, clearly startled, arms winding up his chest and around his neck. The sound vibrates against his lips and they curve against yours before pressing harder.
He lifts you in one smooth motion once he has a grip on the back of your thighs, pressing your back firmly against the wall. Your legs hitch instinctively around his hips and he grinds up against you, arousal undeniable even through the denim. He feels your back arching off the cold wall, the press of his body against yours is solid, the hard line of him grinding into you.. He almost lets out a guttural groan when he feels your fingers threading through his white locks.
“S-Satoru–” you squeak again, breaking from his mouth. “The door–” His mind is reeling, he’s trying to think rationally because he doesn’t know what you mean by the door. He’s lowering you slowly, sliding against the wall until your feet hit the ground. He has his forehead resting against yours and he’s absolutely drunk off the sight of you, pupils blown wide under the low closet lighting, lips swollen and kiss-bitten.
He huffs out a “Huh?” warm breath hits your face before he realizes the door. “Does it lock?” he murmurs, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you to him as he takes a step back. He’s leaning in for another kiss before you can even finish shaking your head, eyes fluttering. He walks the two of you backwards to the door. Each step is punctuated with a kiss, messy and lingering until he’s closing the door behind him. You feel the curve of his lips as his mouth is back on yours, hot and insistent.
“Let’s keep it down then,” he mumbles against your lips. He places his hand on your hips, spinning you with an ease that leaves you a little dizzy. The top now clear of books, the neat stacks already shelved, leaving a flat, metal surface for you to lean onto. He presses up behind you, broad chest flush to your back. Seeing you like this, bent over the metal book cart, so willing and ready for him has him palming himself through his jeans.
He wonders how you would look sprawled out under his bedroom lighting, if you would look up at him flushed and dazed like you are now. He also thinks you’d look cute in his jersey, in the backseat of his car after a game. He stores that thought in the back of his mind for later and instead settles for seeing you splayed out under the dim fluorescent lighting, which is doing absolutely sinful things to his already short-circuiting brain right now.
He flips your skirt carelessly over your ass, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His breath stutters once he catches the sight of the darkened fabric clinging between your legs. He bites down on his bottom lip to smother another guttural sound threatening to break free. His knuckle ghost against the damp outline, brushing against the heat. You let out a whimper that makes the fabric of his jeans that much tighter.
“Can you hurry up?” You whine. He’d chuckle at the sight of you pushing your hips back and wiggling a little if it didn’t nearly put him into cardiac arrest. He fumbles at the waistband of his jeans, tugging down the zipper, his free hand shoving the bottom hem of his sweater up, tucking the hem between his teeth to keep it out of the way. You shift under him, glancing back over your shoulder again, eyes wide and curious.
He tilts his head to get a better look so he can watch the way you’re craning to see and it unfurls some primal feeling in his chest. He sucks a breath in through his teeth, willing himself to keep it together. “Remember that,” he speaks lowly. He can almost hear your sassy retort rattling in your brain. He wraps one hand around himself, pumping once, twice, slow and deliberate and he can feel himself twitching as he watches your eyes trail down his body to where he has himself in his hand. His free hand comes down heavy on the swell of your ass, the sharp smack sound echoing off the shelves.
You jolt, a startled gasp spills out, your palms gripping the edge of the cart. He watches as you squeeze around nothing, the thin cotton shifting as you do so. He almost wants to throw his head back and let the closet lighting bring him back to reality.
He uses the thumb of his free hand to push your panties aside, a string of slick stretches between the fabric and your skin, catching in the fluorescent lighting and his stomach clenches with the effort it takes not to lose it right there. Gojo drags the head of his length around your wetness, the sound obscene in the otherwise silent room, before pushing forward, sliding into your heat. You let out something between a moan and a whimper as your head falls forward, resting on your arms in front of you.
He curses under his breath and leans over your body, chest pressed flush to your back as his teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Gotta stay quiet for me, pretty girl,” he speaks through gritted teeth, holding back a low groan. The warmth of his breath fanning over your ear sends a tingle down your spine.
You nod your head quickly, just to get him to start moving. His grip on your hip tightens, pulling you back onto him as he starts picking up his pace. The cart beneath you squeaks, the wheels shifting with each thrust, the whole thing unstable under his pace. He leans over you, long frame easily covering your entire body, his mouth leaving a trail of open, wet kisses along your neck and down to your shoulder, where he bites down on the flushed skin. Your body jolts instinctively, your back arching into him. His rhythm quickens, the sound of skin slapping and your low rapid breaths filling the air.
His long fingers dig into the curve of your bone at your hip and he wonders if he might leave bruises so he tries to remove some of the pressure. Your arms are scrambling across the cart’s surface, desperately searching for something to hold until you find the edge of the cart. He continues pulling you back at a rough pace, your thighs trembling and he can hear your breath hitching.
“Sa—toru,” you gasp, panting as his mouth drags lower, kissing a line down the slope of your neck, leaving a trail of wetness in his path. His teeth nip at your shoulder then he bites down, just hard enough to make you flinch and he hums against where he bit, placing a kiss there, soothing the ache. “It’s too much,” you whine out as quietly as you can manage.
“C’mon baby,” he moves back so he’s whispering in your ear, voice low and gravelly, “Didn’t you tell me hurry up? You can take it.” His words have you clenching around him and his lips curve into a grin against your skin.
One of your hands leaves the cart, fumbling blindly until you’re able to close your fingers around the hard muscle of his forearm. His muscles flex under your grip, straining with every thrust as he’s dragging you back into him at a relentless pace.
He can feel you trembling underneath him, whimpers catching in your throat and he swears he can feel the sound of each shaky breath vibrating through your spine. Your hand slips lower between your bodies until your fingers cup his balls, tentative at first before rolling firm and deliberate.
His entire body jolts against his will, rhythm stuttering and his head drops forward against your shoulder, forehead resting on your damp skin. The sound that tears from his chest is raw and guttural and he nearly draws blood as he bites his lower lip to keep the sound suppressed.
“Holy shit,” the words come out ragged, voice breaking into a strained groan and he swears he hears his voice crack but it’s hard to tell with the blood roaring in his ears. He hadn’t expected that at all from you, you being so unassuming, not exactly the shy and quiet type but definitely not like this either.
His arm snakes higher around your waist, pulling you off the cart and tight against him. The wheels squeak in protest as he hauls you upright, pressing your back flush to his chest, your head weakly falling back on his shoulder. He presses a kiss onto your temple and feels the shudder that rolls through your entire body.
His hand slides up over your sternum, between both tits until his palm wraps around your throat. He keeps his hold there, firm and steady, just enough to keep your weight leaned back on him.
His mouth finds your ear, tongue tracing the curve before his teeth nibble at the edge of your lobe. Your hands shoot up, clutching at his arm to anchor yourself, nails biting faint crescent marks into his pale skin.
“Oh my god, Satoru,” you whimper, voice trembling. He can feel the vibration from your throat against his palm. “I’m about to come.” Your voice comes out cracked and broken.
His free hand leaves your hip, sliding over your lower belly, trailing heat until his deft fingers slip between your thighs. He finds your clit, drawing circles to match his thrusts, sharp and heavy. His grip on your body tightens as he feels your body buckles under his hold.
”Come for me, pretty,” he groans, his breath catching on your ear. Your body arched against him, the wave of your orgasm comes crashing over you, clenching tightly around him and another broken cry comes from your mouth, quickly muffled as the hand on your throat closes around your mouth. Your muffled moans come out small and desperate.
Gojo swears under his breath, hips stuttering as your body squeezes him tight, pulling him closer to the edge. He presses his face against your neck, willing his groans to quietness as he begins rutting into you frantically before he releases into you.
You can feel him throbbing inside you as he begins to slow his movements. He holds you to his front even when he stills until he feels you gaining some control of your weak legs. He places his hands on your hips and turns you to face him, your hair messy and face flushed, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to shamelessly look at your cleavage even though the two of you just had sex.
He pulls your panties back into place from where they had been carelessly shoved to the side and pats your mound playfully. “Can’t let that get out,” he jokes and pulls your skirt down from where it rested above your hips. There’s heat rushing up your neck to your ears as silly as it may seem.
“Don’t you have practice?” you suddenly remember as you tug on the hem of your cardigan, trying to straighten yourself out. Gojo roughly drags a hand down his face, eyes wide in panic.
“Oh shit.”
-
The game ended 82-70, University of Tokyo taking the win. Gojo waits until most of his teammates have left the locker room before shooting you a text to meet him here. He definitely gets a few looks from his teammates as they shuffle out of the locker room without him.
“Are you sure I’m allowed to be in here?” your voice echoes, bouncing around the empty locker room tiles. Gojo is at his locker, shoving his basketball shoes into his duffel, hair damp with sweat, jersey clinging to his skin. The only sound besides the rustling of his bag is the drip of a leaky shower in the far corner.
He asked you—half-joking— to wear his jersey and even though he’s a little disappointed you didn’t, the fact that you still came has a grin tugging at his face. He watches from where he stands as you swing your legs idly, foot bumping the cabinet now and then. Your posture is casual, resting your weight on the heels of your hands as they grip the edge of the counter, but your eyes flick around the room warily.
“Relax,” he drawls, “Everyone’s already gone. Coach Yaga is having the team do some fundraiser.” He drapes a towel loosely around his neck, bringing it up to dry his sweat-dampened hair as he grins at you, looking up from his bag.
“Mmm,” you don’t look entirely convinced, scrunching your nose before you concede, “Okay.”
He slips on his normal shoes once his gear finds its place in his bag. “Well?” he asks suddenly, zipping the bag shut.
You tilt your head, “Well, what?”
He runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it away from where it stuck to his forehead, eyes glinting. “How’d I do? Did I look hot?”
You snort, biting down a laugh as your heel thumps lightly against the cabinet below you. “What? You want me to stroke your ego and tell you how good you did?” You’re messing with him again, sarcasm laced in your voice.
He grins, crossing the room in a few long strides before he’s standing in front of you. His palms brace against the counter on either side of your thighs, caging you in. You smell good. Clean like soap but also something warm and fruity. It stands out against the smell of the damp locker room.
“Yes, actually,” he leans in slightly, lowering himself so your eyes are level. His eyes are locked on yours.
Your lips part, seemingly a little surprised at the space closing between the two of you. You let out a sigh, something between exasperation and amusement, “Fine,” you say with a sly smile, “You did play very well. You’re very good.” He can tell you’re being honest and for some reason it does a little more to his chest than to his ego. “Mr. Star Player Shooting Guard,” you add, teasing, the corner of your mouth curling.
“Oh y’know,” he shrugs like it was nothing, rolling his shoulders loose, “just what I do.”
“You know you’ve got quite a few fans in the crowd?” you continue, tone lilting and teasing again now that you’ve given him your sincerity.
That gets another smirk out of him, tilting his head with a cocky gleam sparking in his eyes, “Do I now?”
“Mhm,” you nod, still swinging your legs, “You’re very popular.” He slots himself in between your legs, leaning just a little closer, closing the space.
His voice drops lower, still playful and you can feel the damp heat radiating off his skin. “What about you?” his face is directly in front of yours and he can feel your soft breath across his nose and lips. “Are you a fan?”
That gets a laugh out of you, a short, quick burst of air. “And if I was? You fuck all your fans?”
He can still hear the teasing in your voice but he also hopes that’s not what you think of him. He wants to defend himself but instead opts for shaking his head, eyes not leaving yours. “Nope.”
His hands slide up from the counter where they had you caged in, big palms curling over the fabric of your jeans and tugging, pulling you closer. The denim slides easily against the polished counter. The motion brings your knees right up against his sides, your bodies nearly flush.
His frame looms over you easily, damp hair falling forward as he leans in. The muscles in his arms flex where they bracket your body and his eyes flick down to your lips then back up. Your arms rest limply at your sides so you bring your hands up to fumble with the hem of his jersey, twitching against the fabric.
He dips his head lower, bringing one hand up to cup your chin between his pointer and thumb, tilting your head upwards. “Any other questions?” his eyes are low on you and he sees that your eyes are already fluttering shut, lips parting just slightly as you shake your head quickly in his grip. You lean into his solid body, heat still radiating from the game.
His mouth catches yours, hot and immediately and he’s pleasantly surprised when you meet him with the same urgency. Your arms rise from your sides, hands gripping at his bare biceps still sticky from sweat, your fingers slide over the firm muscle before curling tighter. His tongue slides against yours as he groans softly into the kiss, the sound gets swallowed into the kiss as his hands fall lower, palms at your hips, fingers spreading wide over the plush curve of your ass, kneading firmly.
He feels you press closer to him, your fronts pressed flush to each other. Your arms scramble upwards, curling around the back of his neck to tug him down toward you. He follows you willingly, dragging you forward by the hips until you slide off the countertop. Your toes barely brush the ground and you tip up onto them, straining to meet his height. He’s sure you would have lost your balance if it wasn’t for his firm grip on your body.
His hands trail from your hips to the waistband of your jeans, impatiently fumbling at the button with impatient fingers. He curses lightly into your mouth, struggling to work your pants. You giggle and reach down to help him and you make quick work of it. He tugs the denim over your hips, dragging your panties down with it and discarding the fabric carelessly once you kick free of them.
He’s got his hands on your hips again the second they’ve been tossed aside, lifting you easily to set you back on the counter. He’s crouching down in front of you, spreading your legs with a heavy hand on your inner thighs.
Gojo’s eyes drink in the sight, breath catching. He hadn’t really gotten to look last time you had hooked up and now he does get to really look and the sight has his mouth going dry. His lips part, a low groan rolling from his chest. He uses a thumb to spread you open in front of him and he can feel your thighs tense, like they’re threatening to clench so he uses his other hand to keep them open.
When he glances up at you, you’re flushed, mouth parted, chest heaving with slow and ragged breaths. He doesn’t hesitate, leaning in and his mouth seals hot and desperate on your slick. His tongue works in long, deliberate drags, his nose nudging against sensitive skin as he devours you with unrestrained focus. He moves like a man starved, like he may never be able to do this again.
You let out a strangled sound, hips jerking, the motion so sharp he feels you lose balance. Your hand shoots forward, clutching at his shoulder for balance, your other hand threads into his pale hair, tangling tight as an anchor. He groans into you at the tug and can feel your body shudder from the vibration. The sight of you, undone above him, legs trembling, back arched, lips parted around little gasps, is now effectively burned into his brain. One hand drags higher, bracing it firm against your thigh to keep you open for him, your calf is hooked over his shoulder. His other hand is splayed over your hip, fingers digging into your skin.
Gojo’s tongue works over you, trying to memorize every twitch of your body. He alternates between laying his tongue flat, dragging long, wet stripes that leave you shuddering and flicking sharply at your clit until your thighs are trembling around his body. Selfishly, he hopes anyone you hook up with after this reminds you of him. He also wonders if it’s too soon to be possessive but that thought is washed away when you rut yourself against his tongue and he lets out a groan at how desperate you are.
He hears you gasp his name, the sound high and shaky like your voice is breaking. You’re rolling your hips against his face, chasing friction and when his eyes flick up again, your expression is dazed, chest rising and falling rapidly under the UTokyo shirt you were wearing, the tight fabric clinging to your frame. He needs to see what you look like under the shirt.
He ducks lower, sliding his other arm beneath your opposite thigh and hauling it over his shoulder, pulling you further onto his mouth. His broad frame is wedged between both of your legs, holding you spread wide and trembling. His mouth seals back over you, devouring you like a man possessed and he’s even surprising himself, as desperate to make you come as you are. He licks broad, messy strokes drawing broken whimpers out of you. His own cock is throbbing painfully in his shorts, straining against the mesh fabric and he has half the mind to release one hand from you to start palming himself through the shorts for some relief.
Your body arches, grinding helplessly against his tongue, chasing your release. You let out another broken cry as you come undone on his mouth and he groans against you, greedily lapping you through it and you feel your body slack around him, grip loosening from his hair. He stands, barely giving you time to catch your breath before he’s shoving his shorts and boxers down in one rough motion. His eyes glaze over your form, leaking and ready for him. One arm stays locked around your thigh while the other braces his weight, firm against the countertop beside your body. He watches your eyes trail up the veins on his forearms before you lock eyes with him.
Your hand trembles as you reach for him, wrapping your smaller fingers around him, pumping him slowly. His head tips forward, forehead resting on your shoulder, jaw slack. “Fuck,” he rasps as you angle him toward your entrance, guiding him. His knees nearly buckle but he presses forward anyway, sliding into you inch by inch. He squeezes his eyes shut as he bottoms out. The way you’re clenching around him, hot and impossibly tight and he lets out another swear under his breath. You have him wondering how it’s possible that you feel better the second time.
He leaves a kiss under your collarbone and allows his teeth to graze your skin, hips stilling, trembling with restraint. His cock is flushed and heavy, twitching inside you as he forces himself to drag back slowly, pulling out until just his round head remains in you before thrusting back in. His slow movements are less for you and more for himself, already so close to the edge.
He sinks back in, high hand on your thigh shifting higher, locking you in place. His pace picks up without him meaning to, hips snapping forward harder and sharper, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the tiled room. You let out a moan, head thrown back, exposing the column of your throat and he takes advantage of the opening, attaching his fingers to the soft skin at your neck. Your nails dig into his shoulder, clinging onto him as your body jolts in time with his mean thrusts.
He pulls back from your neck, looping both arms under your thighs to hoist you up higher. You fall back onto your elbows, holding yourself up as he slams into you, legs spread wide around him. You’re reduced to a mess of broken moans and cries until he’s leaning over you, mouth pressed to your ear, groans spilling out between his words.
“Fuck,” his voice is low in you ear, breath warm and uneven, “You like that?” He emphasizes each word with a rough thrust, “Letting me fuck you in the library–” he pauses to hold back another groan, “And now in the locker room?” Each word is punctuated with a deep, bruising drive os his hips, cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. “You let anyone else fuck you like this?”
You barely have the sense to comprehend what he’s saying, let alone respond between pants so you just shake your head immediately, desperate, eyes squeezing shut. He tugs your UTokyo shirt up over your chest, thumb hooking under your bra to pull it up with your shirt. His eyes flick down greedily, watching the way your tits bounce with each thrust. He’s not sure how much longer he can last with you looking like this under him.
“Use your words, pretty girl,” he manages to get out through gritted teeth.
“Oh–oh my god,” you gasp, mewling, every sound spilling helplessly out of you, “No, Satoru–just you.” And you seem desperate enough so he’s pistoning forward faster, chasing every noise you make until you’re a mess in his arms, whimpering, voice cracking around his name. His grip on your thighs tightens to anchor himself.
You hold yourself up, arms linked tightly around his neck, “Satoru–” you gasp, “I’m gonna– come,” your words come out strained and his thrusts turn frantic, reckless as he chases both of your release. The wet slap of your bodies echoes with every snap of your bodies until you cry out, entire body seizing against him, legs trembling around his waist. Your release hits hard, clenching around him and he loses it.
He curses, the sound rips from his throat low and guttural and is muffled against your neck as his pace falters. He grinds into you through the force of both of your release slowly, the sound of his name coming from your mouth like a prayer and his vision is blurred at the edges. He lets you hold onto him, flush to his chest until your body is no longer shaking against his and then he’s peeling away from you slowly, sweat dripping from his temple.
He moves his hands to your hips, easing you down from the counter carefully, hands steady on your body until your feet are planted on the tile. His chest is still heaving, voice still rough but he’s got that easy grin on his face, seeing your legs a bit shaky and wobbling as you’re standing in front of him. He watches you tug your shirt down and he misses the sight of your tits already. He crouches down to grab your jeans from where they’d ended, shaking them off before handing them to you.
“Thanks,” you say, a little breathless, balancing on one foot to tug them back on. He’s kind of enjoying watching you get dressed in front of him. He pulls his shorts up, running a hand through his hair, peeking behind you at the mirror so he can fix it, messy from the tugging you did.
After a moment of silence, he clears his throat, “Uh. Hey.”
You turn to face the mirror, making eye contact with him through it. “Hm?” you hum in response, tugging your shirt down to its full length.
His grin falters slightly, unsure of how to word what he’s trying to say. “I didn’t mean to uh–y’know–imply you were a slut or anything,” he states a little awkwardly. He looks a little sheepish, flexing his fingers out of nerves.
You snort, “Yeah, I know. It’s fine. I liked it.” You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips.
He blinks, the sincerity in your voice surprising him. He’s also a little surprised you’re so lax. You’re turning out to be nothing like he expected. “Weelll,” he starts, his grin sliding back into its usual place, “since that’s all cleared up,” he moves so he’s leaning against the counter, facing you and tilting his head, “y’know, I did kinda wanna fuck you in my jersey.” He pauses to think about it again, “Sounds hot.” He murmurs, more to himself than you.
You hum, leaning against the counter next to him for balance as you slip your shoe back on, not even looking at him when you answer. “Maybe next time.” You tell him casually.
Next time.
His grin stretches a little wider, the usage of next time not lost on him. He swings his duffel bag over his shoulder as you fall into step beside him, the echo of your footsteps filling the empty locker room. He leads you to the door, hair messy, “Maybe next time we can do something else,” he glances down at you, “maybe this too,” he adds after some thought. You arch your brow at him, giving him a look, “somewhere private though.” He tacks on. “Unless you’re into the whole exhibitionist thing.”
That gets a laugh out of you, ripping through your chest as you shake your head. “Both times were technically because of you.” He opens the locker door for you, stepping aside so you can walk through. He steps beside you into the cool evening air.
He shrugs like it’s nothing, one hand loose on the strap of his duffel over his shoulder. “Soo?” He drags on and he likes the way you look up at him, glancing through your lashes, somewhere between exasperated and entertained.
“Yeah, sure,” you say, noncommittal. Your mouth twitches around a smile. Noncommittal, yes, but he could definitely work with this.